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Full text of "Goudy, master of letters"

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THE UNIVERSITY 

OF ILLINOIS 

LIBRARY 



ILLINOIS HISTORICAL SUBVEF 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2012 with funding from 

University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 



http://archive.org/details/goudymasterofletOOorto 



GOUDY 

MASTER OF LETTERS 



LIBRARY 

OF THE 

UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 




Frederic W. Goudy, 1937 



GOUDY 

MASTER OF LETTERS 

BY 
VREST ORTON 

5% 

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
FREDERIC W. GOUDY 



T 



THE BLACK CAT PRESS 
CHICAGO 1939 



Copyright 1939 by the Blac\ Cat Press 



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G-68'8 



TO 



LELIA AND GARDNER ORTON 



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Contents 

Author's Preface 13 

Introduction 19 

Goudy: Master of Letters 25 

Postlude: The Destruction of Deepdene 87 

Illustrations 

Frederic W. Goudy, 1937 6 

Goudy the Old Master 24 
Goudy using Albion Press at Anderson Galleries 39 

Type styles when Goudy began designing type 45 

Typography at the time Goudy began his career 46 

Advertising of the early 1900 era 63 

A Goudy title page 64 

Goudy at Deepdene, IQ32 73 

Specimen of Goudy types, IQ21 74 



Author's Preface 



Daniel Berkeley Updike, whose ability to make 
charming epigrams has enriched and enlightened our 
typographic lore, once said, ". . . any person of mod- 
erate intelligence can make the most of his advan- 
tages . . . the trick being to make the most of one's 
disad vantages.' ' No one in the history of American 
graphic arts has accomplished this trick with greater 
success than Frederic Goudy. 

Not even Goudy's best friends claim that he was 
born a genius. Certainly he has never lived or acted 
like one. His early years were destitute of the advan- 
tages so handy nowadays to students of printing. No 
typographic schools or teachers existed to train him. 
He lacked the encouragement of fellow workers. He 
had no opportunity to feel the lure of scholarship or 
to see and be inspired by the work of masters in the 
art of printing. 

For years, Goudy was obliged to work for a living 
at the dull tasks of bookkeeping, selling real estate 
and clerking in stores. Even after he became excited 
about letters and printing with them, for a long time 
he still had to cut his path through a tangled jungle 
of bad taste and slipshod work all around him. 

In spite of all this, Goudy persevered. He made 

[13] 



the most of his disadvantages. As the honors and 
the kudos came, I can think of only one word to ex- 
press how he took them. He endured them. An 
average man, he was sincerely modest and, I think, 
a little startled as success met him ... a little unwill- 
ing to believe it true. As John Kimberly Mumford 
wrote: "It is some men's painful fate that after they 
have set a mark upon their times, woven themselves 
silently and unbeknown into the lives of many, they 
should pass from the earthly scene unknown. 
Frederic W. Goudy is not by way of joining this 
pathetic caravan. But he would have been a member 
in good standing if it had been left to him. As a 
self-promoter he is as noisy as the growing grain.' ' 

Cold facts, taken off the record, show that Frederic 
Goudy has designed well over one hundred type 
faces and is responsible for the establishment and 
operation, for over thirty-five years, of what is now 
the oldest private press in America. 

But these are purely quantitative appraisals. 
Merely to set them down again on paper would be 
to duplicate the work already done by other hands. 
It is highly improbable, I think, that many of these 
hundred type faces will survive, as Caslon has sur- 
vived. In another century, I venture to predict, no 
more than two or three Goudy fonts will ,be in use. 

What I am trying to get at is this : it really matters 
not a jot whether Goudy has designed a hundred 
type faces or a thousand, but whether all become a 
permanent part of our typographic equipment in 

[14] 



another hundred years, or not a single one. It seems 
to me Fred Goudy is going to be remembered for 
something far more lasting and important, even 
though far less tangible, than the number of types he 
has created. In fact, the public has done Goudy a 
disservice in paying so much attention to this nu- 
merical score as if it were the sine qua non of his 
value to American graphic arts and American 
culture. 

The story of Frederic Goudy's success is one of 
the very best examples we have of the apotheosis of 
the average man. Nowhere but in America could a 
man like Goudy have achieved so much. Nothing 
seemed to be in his .favor, yet for some reason he got 
started on the right path. Luck, fate, or call it what 
you will, seemed against him, yet he managed to get 
on. He was, as I have said, no genius, He did not, 
like some of the brilliant figures in our history, flash 
across the scene with great noise and light. No one 
could, on the surface, distinguish Fred Goudy from 
the average American workman who had c ome from 
an average American family, with an average Ameri- 
can background. 

But Fred Goudy is an artist and a craftsman. His 
impact on the last half century of American printing 
has been that of an artist and craftsman. In this 
period when the entrepreneurs took over everything 
and art nearly died out, and when America reached 
the senith of a rampant commercialism which leapt 
from one vulgarity to another, Fred Goudy kept 

[15] 



right on being an artist and a craftsman. Of the some 
half dozen distinguished leaders in American print' 
ing of this epoch, not one was able, more steadfastly 
and more successfully, to keep this one attitude alive 
and to work by it alone. 

It is this temperament and this point of view that, 
basically, make up the things men live by. And the 
man Goudy will be remembered, I think, long after 
most of his types are lost in the hot oblivion of the 
melting pot, because his long and useful life has 
whole-heartedly and resolutely been devoted to a 
good cause when a good cause was most needed. 
That was the cause of beauty and integrity. 

In the brave new world of tomorrow, we shall 
have, I suppose, to strive more and more to make 
printing serve the real purpose for which it was in' 
vented; the purpose of multiplying in great numbers 
for the masses, the good words of those who have 
good words to say. The isolated work of men with 
hand presses, slowly and carefully printing a few 
words on a few sheets of handmade paper, will have 
to be branded as pure dilettantism and will, per' 
force, give way to the men who shall make possible 
the faster and better ways of getting the good words 
before the greatest number of people. But the faster 
and better ways need no longer be the cheap, dowdy 
and shoddy ways of the late nineteenth century. A 
cleaner and purer functionalism is at hand. 

This was made possible, as evidence is already 
beginning to prove, by the work and temperament, 

[16] 



in the last fifty years, of such artists and craftsmen 
as Frederic Goudy. Despite the fact that such men 
may have little place in this future world, their in' 
fluence must still be felt. For it is they who gave us 
the purer forms and made us realise that printing can 
never do its job for humanity unless, along with 
speed and coverage, it carries with it those human' 
istic qualities of aesthetic taste and feeling. 

If men like Goudy had never lived, the downward 
trend of printing in the late nineteenth century 
might have continued until letters became unread' 
able and culture was crippled. Goudy helped rescue 
printing from its crazy tail'spin and made us realise 
that even though speed and quantity were, by neces' 
sity, becoming the objectives, we could never quite 
do without something else. 

That Goudy helped to provide this something 
else gives him a permanent place in the history of the 
graphic arts. 

And it also makes him, I think, of interest to 
every man who reads the English language. As a 
matter of fact, that is the reason I ventured to write 
this piece about Frederic Goudy in the first place. 
The average man, even the average printer, knows 
little about how types are designed and cast into 
metal. Type, so far as they know, grows on trees, or 
is mined or at least is obtained by some bizarre and 
cryptic process. 

One time, several years ago, whilst visiting a 
printing shop on the eastern shore of Maryland and 

[17] 



being shown through the plant, I remarked to the 
proprietor that it was good to see that he had a run 
of Goudy type in his cases. I went on to say that I 
had the honor of knowing Mr. Goudy. The man 
looked up, a little skeptical . . . "Mr. Goudy?" he 
said . . . "you mean Goudy is a man's name? 1 ' 

I wrote this piece to tell this average American 
printer and the general reading public, that Goudy 
is indeed a man's name ... a man very much alive and 
interesting as a man. This book is openly intended 
for popular consumption. I make no apologies to my 
friends in the printing world for dwelling here upon 
the things about Goudy and his life that seem to be 
of popular interest, and for omitting all the technical 
minutiae and dates and bibliographies of type faces 
that so properly belong in a more formal and com- 
plete record of Fred Goudy's contribution to the 
graphic arts. 



Vrest Orton 



Weston^Vermont 
September 3, 1938 



[18] 



Introduction 



After reading Vrest Orton's book in galley form to 
see if I might safely accept the publisher's request to 
write a bit of introduction for it, I was reminded of 
Bernard Shaw's inquiry to another author : "Did all 
these things happen, or did you invent them?" As I 
read, I wondered too if he has not over-estimated 
achievement in his efforts to interpret the events and 
progress in the life of a prosaic personage who has 
never sought acclaim. 

Yet I am glad Mr. Orton has made his work in- 
terpretative rather than critical. I already feel myself 
"a trifle out-moded" and I do not feel that I could 
bear with equanimity, undue criticism at this time; 
nor do I desire undeserved adulation. 

Mr. Orton has done a pleasant thing — that is, 
what he has done is at least pleasant reading for me. 
I have tried to read his interpretation as though it 
were not myself of whom he was writing but instead 
someone else, because, to me, I cannot even now 
realise that what he says of me can be true or even, if 
true, important to any except my intimate friends. I 
imagine that I must have a genius for friendship. I 

[19] 



have so many known and unknown friends whose 
loyalty has become a tradition and I am more con- 
cerned about retaining their regard than I am for any 
fame he attributes to me. 

As I have said many times before, my craft is a 
simple one; I am a simple man who thinks simply, 
and my work is simple, that is, it presents the sim- 
plicity that takes account of the essentials, that elimi- 
nates unnecessary lines and parts. But I do not mean 
the bastard simplicity that presents mere crudity of 
detail or execution and neglects to include beauty 
and dignity which makes simple forms at once pleas- 
ant, yet not detracting or lessening in any way their 
utility or purpose. That I was born with a mechani- 
cal sense and a natural deftness with tools is true, but 
that that deftness should later manifest itself in the 
making of letter forms was not among the dreams of 
my youth. It was near a score of years before it oc- 
curred to me to make any use of my ability to draw 
for the drawing of mere letters, and even then it 
came about more or less casually. 

I have told elsewhere how my work as an account- 
ant in a book store brought me into closer contact 
with book dealers and publishers and from my visits 
to their stores to the sort of books that opened my 
mind to an appreciation of them as examples of craft 
and typographic art, and not merely as sources of 
literary information. 

[20] 



Always a reader, I had formed something of a 
taste for better reading than the Jack Harkaway sto- 
ries or the Alger books (which I do not think I ever 
read), and then I began to notice that certain books 
presented a quality of interest not dependent on the 
text of the book itself. What was it? It must be the 
types in which they were set. But letters are letters 
and types are letters only. What is the difference be- 
tween one V and another? It was then that I began 
any serious study of printing and types, a study that 
continues even now. 

Mr. Orton has gone into considerable detail as to 
my progress along these lines so I need not recount 
them here. He has shown me as quite the very ordi- 
nary person I really am, a man with ordinary likes 
and dislikes, quick at times to anger, slow to lose it; 
at all times ready to argue a point but not intolerant 
or bull-headed. One thing he does not bring out is 
that I believe my artistic conscience is always on the 
job, although I might hesitate to say as much for my 
moral conscience, which I maintain is as good as new 
through not too much use. 

I have never regarded myself as a " typographer" 
— I print because I want to and in the way I want 
to; those who like my way — well, that's a matter 
that concerns them only, those who don't — the 
same thing again is true. Of types and type design I 
can't help feeling that forty years of study and prac 

[21] 



tice in their making entitles me to consider my own 
opinion as a thing of some value, and I have said by 
way of explanation elsewhere "I have attempted (in 
my work) to maintain a complete indifference toward 
public opinion, since I am convinced that only by 
such indifference could the results of my study and 
endeavors be likely to reach heights of sublimity or 
distinction; the versatility and imagination displayed 
in my work must be my very own, and not tempered 
by the suggestions of others/' The value of my work 
future generations will judge more correctly than is 
possible today; yet my work has been for this day 
rather than for posterity. 

It is a matter of great pride and satisfaction that 
some of my types have had a popularity and fame 
during my lifetime which never was accorded some 
of the monumental types of the past during the life- 
time of their makers. I am glad that I have never con- 
sciously permitted my work to become a mere means 
to exploit my own handicraft, but have endeavored 
always to make use, beauty, and legibility the great 
desiderata. 

The boy who never went to college but who kept 
high ideals constantly before his eyes thus attains, for 
a time, a definite place in the attention of a too-forget- 
ful world as one who has produced something, he 
hopes, of value to his fellow men. 

And if I never went to college, neither did I ever 

[22] 



attend art classes, nor did I ever have practical in- 
struction in printing. I found early in my work that 
what I needed was included in books, and that books 
were as open to me as to others. All I needed was to 
attempt to apply what I found in them, to rediscover 
for myself the principles set forth in them — what 
more could I get from a teacher in an art class? 

I would wish, as was said of Morris, my epitaph 
might intimate that "he sought to do good work 
within the limits of his own craft. " 



Fred W. Goudy 



Marlboro, J^ew Tor\ 
March 4, 1939 



[23] 



GOUDY 
MASTER OF LETTERS 



To take another slant on the old adage about a 
prophet being without honor in his own coun* 
try, this story is about an American workman 
who has been for years laden with honor galore, in 
his own and other countries. There is, to attest this, 
a glittering array of medals, scrolls, greetings and 
other manifest evidences of the good this man has 
done, and books, magazines and the movies have 
made record of it. Not long ago Frances Perkins, Sec 
retary of Labor, journeyed to New York to honor this 
American workman. 

"He is one of the few people,' ' she told her audi- 
ence, "left to us in this generation, in this day of 
machinery and mass production who works both 
with his hands and with his brain. He loves the word : 
the English word, the printed word, the spoken 
word and he serves, I think, through the type he 
designs to glorify that word, to make that word com- 
prehensible and understandable to all people. He 
works at it like a workman because he is a workman 
in the higher and larger sense. It is not enough that 
we should understand the beautiful and delicate line 
in the design of type; it is important we should get 
that type, set it up in a press and print the word and 

[25] 



hope that that word will be the good word, the 
word of men of sincerity and understanding." 

What manner of man can this be who is set up so 
high by many authorities, and yet is heard so little of 
by the man on the street? An acquaintance with 
Frederic W. Goudy, the most prolific letter designer 
in history, be it in person or print, is an acquaintance 
with a man rare in this day and age. He is the man, 
as Madame Secretary emphasized, "who loves the 
word, and serves to glorify that word. 1 '' Anything 
written about Frederic Goudy's work, as he himself 
has suggested, ought to be entitled "The Strange- 
ness of Familiar Things," for what is more familiar 
to us all than letters ... in writing or in type? Yet 
what is stranger than the way these letters are ere' 
ated and the men who create them? 

The first thing we learn, after we learn to toddle 
and talk, is letters . . . and after the last thing has 
happened to us, we get them cut on a stone to mark 
our place. They say hello and good-bye and every- 
thing in between. No matter what we do or know, 
letters will always play an important part in our 
lives because they are symbols for ideas. We are apt 
to forget that they were first carved, thousands of 
years ago, on slabs of appletree wood by the Chinese 
to make the first block- books; that the Babylonians 
shaped them of clay, and that they were cut in stone 
to inscribe the Trajan column at Rome a hundred 
years after the birth of Christ. We know that they 
were later written on sheepskin by learned monks to 

[26] 



make rich manuscript books and that Gutenberg in- 
vented printing from movable type by hand-casting 
letters in metal from which he printed the first, and 
some say the most beautiful book ever printed. To- 
day, some five hundred years later, we see letters 
being made of lead, faster than one can count, by curi- 
ous and rather baffling machines. All this time letters 
have made thoughts visible . . . and done a familiar 
job for mankind. But few men, except printers, have 
thought much about letters since they tried to put 
them together on building blocks. They see them in 
books and magazines and never notice them unless 
the letters are fantastic enough to hit them in the eye. 
Which is, by the way, as it should be. Goudy once 
wrote, "when typography arouses interest and pleas- 
ure for itself alone and draws to itself the attention 
that belongs to the author's words, it becomes a 
typographic impertinence. " This job of good letters 
is the most anonymous job in the world. 

These fifty-two letters, twenty-six big and twen- 
ty-six small, were not born unaided, nor did they 
just grow. They have to be designed as buildings or 
bridges, or else they'd fail in their purpose. There 
is a long notable list of men from the fourteenth cen- 
tury on, each of whom designed one to half a dozjen 
alphabets. But in America today there is this one 
man, Frederic W. Goudy, who has designed more 
than one hundred alphabets of letters for printing 
types . . . many times more than any other designer 
in the whole history of printing. 

[27] 



Speaking in New York, Goudy once said, "Some- 
times when I am asked what my business is and I 
answer 'I am a type designer/ I often have to go into 
considerable detail to make clear to the inquirer just 
what my work is. If only I could answer such an 
inquiry as easily as one man did, who, when asked as 
to what his occupation might be, replied, fc I used to 
be an organist.' When pressed as to why he gave up 
that work, he said,' My monkey died.' " 

In spite of the fact that the movie newsreel cam- 
eras have looked into Goudy's workshop at Marl- 
boro-on-Hudson, and made his face familiar, for one 
brief moment, to millions, Fred Goudy is as anony- 
mous as the type letters he designs, draws, and casts 
into metal there. 

Goudy, in appearance, is indeed your everyday kind 
of a man. Thick-set, short, with unruly hair and a 
firm chin, but with a twinkle in his eye, easy to 
meet, and a humorist of Mark Twain calibre, he seems 
in retrospect, the balanced amalgam of an artist and 
a workman. You can't find that amalgamation often 
nowadays. That is one reason why Goudy has re- 
mained, to the general public, a man of mystery. In 
the golden age of printing, after Gutenberg, the 
printer and type creator were men of the first order. 
On the wall of many good printing shops (there's a 
copy at the Grolier Club in New York) you'll see an 
engraving of an early master-printer standing at his 
wooden hand -press, his workmen gathered around 

[28] 



Copyright Arnold 



Goudy the Old Master 



LIBRARY 

OF THE 

UNIVERSITY Of ILLINOIS 



him, showing the first proof to the richly attired king 
and nobles. Then, printers consorted with kings. 
Princes were their patrons. Printing, and the making 
of letters in type for printing, were considered as 
arts and men practicing them as artists who had to 
have a background of knowledge, a foreground of in' 
telligence and a middle ground of taste. Such men 
were scholars; they collected libraries, used them, 
wrote erudite treatises. Such men were craftsmen: 
they preferred to make beautiful things with their 
own hands. They got a creative joy from their craft 
and their art, because they did it themselves. They 
were respected and admired by all. 

Now, centuries later, a new economy has dc 
scended upon the world and craftsmanship and 
handicrafts have been swept into the background. 
Typefounding has become a business carried on in 
factories. Printing too has become a business, and 
often a maddening one. With the exception of a 
handful of artists who are doing fine work based on 
the rich traditions of typography, printing is carried 
on for profit alone. It is organised, by necessity, to 
exist by the aid of machines, salesmen, efficiency 
experts and other modern improvements. One can't 
blame contemporary printers for these conditions 
any more than one can blame the twentieth century 
for its existence. 

Yet, in the face of all this, right here in the 
twentieth century and under such an order of 
things, Frederic Goudy has succeeded by being an 

[31] 



artist and workman: the kind of man the first 
printers and type men were. "A miracle that came 
out of the Middle West," wrote Milton MacKaye 
about Goudy. In one sense, I hardly consider Goudy 
a miracle at all. It is no miracle in America (or did 
not used to be) for a man to achieve success by long 
hard work. Goudy is the typical old American . . . 
the kind of man who made the American dream 
possible. His story is the apotheosis of the good 
American workman who kept stolidly and reso- 
lutely at it. He belongs, perhaps, in that popular 
American Valhalla of inventors and practical me- 
chanics of the nineteenth century: Henry Ford, 
Thomas Edison, Charles Kettering, Hiram Maxim 
and Simon Lake. 

Yet Goudy, who used to keep books, sitting on a 
long-legged, uncomfortable stool, in the little towns 
of the Middle West; who used to sort and pile 
money as a cashier, has been and is a poor business 
man. He has not made money in the accepted sense. 
Unlike the gentlemen mentioned above, Goudy will 
probably die poor. He has no formal education, that 
is, he's not a college man. When he needs something 
done, he doesn't go off searching through text books 
or calling in theorists and high-priced engineers. He 
sits down, thinks out the job in hand and then does 
it. If he needs a special machine he makes it. He 
gets results. His machines work. 

One day up at Marlboro, seventy-five miles north 
of New York, I was seated with Fred Goudy in his 

[32] 



workshop, an old mill by a falling stream. In came a 
man from the Monotype Company. This gentle- 
man's great type plant in the city had, I presume, 
every type-making gadget known. The two men 
got to talking about the differences between the big 
plant's methods and Goudy's. When Goudy told, 
in plain language, just how he had set to work and 
built up his simple methods to turn his letter de- 
signs into type, the exclamation was, "Why, you 
can't do it that way!" 

Goudy smiled. "Well, that's the way I did it." 

And he had. He had cut through all the red tape, 
ignored all the theories, forgotten all the text books 
and had done it. 

"Now when you're cutting your matrix from the 
tracing of the pattern, just how accurate do you 
make the line?" Goudy asks as the conversation 
continues. 

"We find one -thousandth of an inch sufficient," 
says his guest. "What do you find?" 

"I find," says Goudy quietly as if it were un- 
necessary to state it, "that two ten-thousandths of 
an inch is not too accurate. That isn't perfect, but I 
need some leeway." 

The other looks up, amazed. "Why you can't see 
two ten-thousandths of an inch." 

"No," says Goudy, "you can't. But you can feel it." 

Right here lies the secret to Goudy 's art. You 
cant see it, but you can feel it. 

Indeed, you can't see whether one letter is good or 

[33] 



bad perhaps when you've got it alone, but in a page 
of type you certainly can feel it. You have to have 
good type faces to begin with or you won't get good 
printing. Good type is the part of good printing you 
don't always notice. But you can feel it. 

Because Goudy is one of the simple men of this 
world who make, as Temple Scott remarked, the 
world a pleasanter place to live in because of the 
good they do and the good way they do it, Goudy is 
honored today. No miracle is Goudy, but only the 
triumph of a simplicity he has often made fun of. In 
speaking at a banquet given him in London, Goudy 
said, "About designing types there is little to be 
said. It is so easy. Just a case of thinking of a letter 
and then marking a line around it." 

Goudy, a clerk wandering from town to town, a 
western realtor, a homesteader on the plains of Da- 
kota, a village sign painter, a man who did not come 
in contact with the fascinating art of printing until 
he was thirty years old, and now the world's leading 
type designer. How . . . why? This is what makes the 
story of Goudy worth telling. 

When I was up at Deepdene, shortly before Mrs. 
Goudy died, we were seated one day in the shop, 
talking about Goudy's early life. 

"My life doesn't interest people," Goudy was 
saying, "why should they want to know what kind 
of breakfast food I eat ... or when I go to bed. It's 
only the work I do that counts." 

[34] 



Mrs. Goudy, who has been more responsible for 
Fred's success than any other human being, and to 
whom, on every occasion, Fred has paid his respects 
and given full credit, was standing before a typecase 
setting type as we talked. She had set Goudy-made 
types for over thirty-five years. Looking over her 
stick, she said; 

"That's just right, Fred! Why should everyone 
want to know about your early life?" I tried to make 
Goudy see it was necessary and important to talk 
about just that. 

Goudy laughed ... he liked to have fun with 
Bertha. Now, wanting to please both of us, he said, 
"Well, Bertha, there is one thing, I had to live my 
early life to get where I am, so I guess we can't 
forget it." 

Just a month before General Lee surrendered at 
Appomattox Court House, and when some of the 
northern troops were already marching home, Fred- 
eric William Goudy was born in the village of Bloom- 
ington, Illinois, the county seat, in the heart of the 
corn belt, 125 miles south of Chicago. It now boasts 
of 30,000 souls and is called the Evergreen City. But 
when Fred came into the world it was much smaller 
and much quieter, a pleasant place for a boy. Pleas- 
anter still, we can fancy, was the old farmstead of 
Fred's grandfather at Monmouth, Illinois, where he 
used to spend many a languid summer day. It was to 
the town library he went to look at and to read 

[35] 



copies of that most wonderful of magazines to a boy, 
the super-illustrated, exciting Harpers Weekly, even 
then full of pictures of the late Civil War made by 
"Our staff artists at the front." Truly halcyon days 
for a boy. And imagine too the awe-inspiring total 
eclipse of the sun which took place one time when 
Fred was at his grandfather's farm and so scared him 
that he ran into the house and hid under the sewing 
machine. And then later, at Rock Island at night, the 
setting-up, strong music of military bands, and the 
flare of torches being carried by the excited marchers 
in political parades for Grant, then running for pres- 
ident. The boy saw all this and more. He saw crash- 
ing ice jams and the massive log rafts on the Mis- 
sissippi ; he gloried in the spectacular exhibition of 
fireworks on Bloomington Courthouse Square on 
July 4, 1876; he listened to the tales of his brother, 
back from the Centennial at Philadelphia ; he climbed 
down into the dark, dripping Illinois caves to explore 
. . . just as Tom Sawyer — not too far away in space 
and time — had done. 

Fred Goudy came of a strong line of solid and un- 
pretentious people. His grandfather, Thomas Biggar 
Goudy, was a gentle man, quiet and reserved, a 
farmer who had felt the urge of the west. And his 
father, John Fleming Goudy, born of a line that 
loved freedom and learning more than money, was 
a school teacher, natural product of these traits. 
Thus they both could give Fred much more than a 
good bringing -up. Fred got his plain ways from 

[36] 



Thomas, the farmer, and from his father, the learner, 
his insatiable quest for knowledge and for a better 
way of doing things. From his mother Amanda 
came, he believes, his love of beauty and truth. 

Fred, says a schoolmate, was a plump little boy 
and an indifferent scholar who hated arithmetic and 
grammar, as many boys have. He early formed the 
habit of reading books. His father had a respectable 
private library which Fred soon exhausted and he 
spent many hours at the public library. His brother 
Charles was then working in the bookstore of S. A. 
Maxwell (3 s Company, and Fred often went there 
and in a curtained'off room in the back, read his 
fill of such curious companions as Mark Twain, St. 
Elmo and Helen s Babies. Not a single schoolmate 
of his in those days saw a great future for young 
Fred Goudy. 

"We all liked him," says Mrs. H. A. Thorn of 
Shelby ville, Illinois, "but somehow he was always 
a little queer." 

Robert Root, an artist who also came out of 
Shelby ville, says, "Goudy was no unusual lad. I 
would have said he was destined to become a sign 
painter.'' 1 

He was a plodder. He got things done when he 
went after them and after a while he got arithmetic 
so he later earned his living by it when he was 
keeping books. But Fred Goudy was not born to be 
a bookkeeper, however honorable that profession 
may be. He was to be a master of letters. Even then 

[37] 



he was busy copying all the wood-engravings in 
Harpers Weekly. 

Bloomington had, and no doubt still has, a Court" 
house Square which is, in southern and mid-western 
towns, the center of all activity. One day Fred, on 
a parental errand of some importance, was unable 
to resist the temptation of walking through the 
Square. There, sitting under a big umbrella with a 
kitchen table before him, a man played with a strange, 
limber wooden frame that appeared to the boy, as he 
crept nearer, to be as double-jointed as a circus freak. 
Conquered by curiosity, Fred walked up and stood 
before him. With one end of the thingumbob, which 
was securely screwed to the table, the man was trac- 
ing a photograph, while the other end, which held a 
pencil, recorded a copy of the photograph three times 
as large. Fred watched him, open-mouthed. He was 
to be more open-mouthed when the man, who had a 
way with boys, suggested that he, Fred Goudy, 
work it too. It was very simple. It was called a pan- 
tagraph; it would enlarge or reduce pictures and it 
cost only twenty-five cents. 

Before this time Fred had been copying all the old 
wood-engravings he could get hold of. He pro- 
gressed to where he could look at a picture and on 
the next day make a copy from memory. One of his 
masterpieces won a blue ribbon at the county fair. 
But here was something else, something vastly more 
wonderful than he had even dreamed of. Think of 
it! All he had to do was trace a picture and a big 

[38] 




Copyright Arnold 



Printing Edna St.Vincent Millay's Renascence 

♦ 

Goudy using Albion Press at Anderson Galleries 



LIBRARY 

OF THE 

UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 



copy would come out. Leastwise he could do it if 
he only owned that pantagraph contraption. But 
he didn't own it and it cost twenty-five cents. Fred 
walked home with a heavy heart. A quarter of a 
dollar was a fortune to a boy in those days. But 
Fred was a good talker. The spirit and temperament 
that have made him today one of our most amusing 
speakers were probably born that August day when 
he talked his father into buying the pantagraph. He 
got the " shin-plaster,' ' as the boys called a quarter 
in Bloomington. "The passage of light," remembers 
Goudy, speaking of this episode now, "is synony- 
mous with speed. But with that shin-plaster in my 
clenched fist, I was a serious competitor to light in 
getting back to the man under the umbrella." 

The man was still 1 there. He took the quarter and 
Fred took the marvelous invention and rushed home 
to demonstrate its strange workings to his father 
and mother, and prove to them how beautifully and 
miraculously it would copy anything. How it would 
copy pictures right out of St. Nicholas magazine, and 
make grand enlargements in real crayon. 

All this proves the boy had early artistic ability, 
one says. Yes, but interestingly enough, it shows more. 

When Frederic Goudy was sixty years old and had 
been designing type letters for many years and was 
firmly established as America's foremost type crea- 
tor, he decided to turn over a new leaf. No longer 
was he satisfied to draw, with a pen or pencil, the 

[41] 



letters for type and then let someone else make the 
metal moulds from the drawings and so make type 
for printers to use. He was going to do the whole 
thing himself! In Robert Wiebking, Sr. of Chicago, 
Goudy found a good punch-cutter, but oftentimes 
this man, good as he was, could not by the methods 
then in use help adding to or taking away something 
from the letter designs Goudy made. When Goudy 
went to him with the pen drawing of a new letter 
and said, "Can you make this, Bob?" Bob Wiebking 
would look at the new design and say no ... no he 
couldn't make it just like that because there was 
nothing like that in existence. But if Goudy took 
him a design and said, "Do this, Bob," Wiebking 
would go ahead, cut the matrix in metal, and with 
the exception of a few deviations, the type might 
come out right. But not all right. At sixty, Goudy 
decided this method must be improved upon. 

His types, he realised, could never be just as he 
wanted them until one man could do the complete 
job in every stage from the time the letters were 
thought of in the mind, until they were cast into 
the actual lead type. This man, he now knew, had 
to be himself. At the age of sixty he started to learn 
all over again. 

It is interesting to see how he works. Here is his 
drawing of a new letter about nine inches in size on 
artist's drawing paper. How are you going to get 
a matrix (or mould) one sixteenth of an inch high, 
exactly like that paper drawing ... a brass mould 

[42] 



to make a piece of type about the sise you are now 
reading? Goudy had a long memory. He did not call 
in experts or look things up in books. He remem- 
bered the pantagraph of the Courthouse Square. 

This pantagraph he developed to his own special 
use. Now he draws the letter with a pencil on card- 
board. Then with a sharp knife he cuts out the 
letter from the cardboard. This becomes his master- 
pattern. In this fashion his designing of letters has 
a double touch of the hand craftsman; they are drawn 
by hand and then cut out by hand. The rest is simply 
a question of arithmetic. Goudy had not forgotten 
that. He even learned to use a slide rule. His adapta- 
tion of the pantagraph machine is a two shelf affair. 
At one end on a shelf is a small tracer. At the other 
end also on a shelf is a small sharp drill. Goudy lays 
the big cut-out cardboard letter on the upper shelf 
and turns on the motor. He begins to move the tracer 
within the cut-out letter. The drill on the lower 
shelf whirrs and cuts out of a flat piece of metal a 
sunken pattern letter ... a letter exactly like the 
drawing only one third as large. This first step makes 
what he calls the metal working-pattern. 

He now places this pattern on another panta- 
graph machine called the matrix-engraving machine, 
a development of the old punch-cutting device in' 
vented by a man named Benton. Goudy has worked 
out some improvements in this machine but it's 
the same pantagraph idea. Just another way of 
reducing si2;e. It has a small hard drill, so small, 

[43] 



indeed, that Goudy has to sharpen it under a micro- 
scope on a machine he made for the purpose. This 
drill at the top works on a block of brass about an 
inch-and-a-half by half-an-inch in size and engraves 
there a sunken mould of the letter, exactly the sizie 
of the type wanted. This is done by pushing the 
tracer, at the bottom, all around the inner walls of the 
metal work-pattern letter. The brass matrix is what 
casters use to cast lead type. All this has to be care- 
fully worked out. For instance, the cutting drill 
has to be ground so its width is in the same ratio to 
the tracer below as the type size, is to the metal 
pattern letter that's being traced. When you realise 
the tracer is from twenty to fifty-thousandths of an 
inch in diameter and that the speedy drill is a 
matter for microscopes to see, you'll realise it's all 
a pretty delicate business. 

Good enough for the boy who hated arithmetic 
and didn't have any formal education! But the in- 
formal education he got himself was far more inter- 
esting and valuable. 

The Goudy family, in Fred's first few years, lived 
in four Illinois towns, in one of them twice. It was 
at Macomb that young Fred watched the potters 
turning their wheels, just as he had watched, earlier 
in Bloomington, the lathes turning out chair legs 
in- a chair factory, and he began to see something. 
He saw that it was no use whittling out a chair leg 
or shaping a pot with one's hands, if one could 

[44] 



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Typography at the time Goudy began his career 



master a machine and make the machine follow the 
will of the hand and the head. Years later when 
people got to talking about the dominance of the 
machine over man, Goudy would smile. They would 
tell him that he had sold out to the machine age 
because he used a pantagraph and drill attached, to 
cut his type, instead of doing it by hand as the old 
punch cutters used to do. Hand work was not, 
Goudy truly saw, a fetish to be worshipped or an 
end in itself, as a lot of dilettantes thought it was. 
Going back to the fifteenth century to live was no 
gain when we had the twentieth upon us. "I have 
never permitted my craft to become an end in itself, 
instead of a means only to a useful end," Goudy has 
said. He had also said that it made little difference 
to him what means, mechanical or otherwise, were 
used to reproduce his letter drawings, just so long 
as they were reproduced perfectly and accurately. 
The type was the thing that counted . . . everything 
else was the means to that end. 

As James A. Garfield, shot by an assassin, had 
breathed his last and the sidcwhiskered Chester 
A. Arthur stepped up to the presidency, the elder 
Goudy moved his family to Butler, another small 
town in southern Illinois. Here Fred made his first 
attempt at handicraft and that too had much to do 
with shaping his career. He won a foot-power lathe. 
I say won advisedly because he didn't have the ten 
dollars the advertisement in Perry Mason's Youths' 
Companion said the lathe would cost. So he went 

[47] 



after the ten. He got a job as janitor in the local 
grammar school, sweeping out four rooms and ring- 
ing the first bell at 8:30 every morning. At this he 
worked for six weeks for the ten dollars with which 
he sent for the lathe. It was a pretty poor lathe 
compared with the turret lathes of today, but to 
young Fred it was the most perfect machine in the 
world and with it he made what seemed to him 
beautiful croquet mallets of Osage orange wood. 
Many other things he turned out and all this didn't 
hurt him for the work that was to come. It gave him 
something of a practical knack in mechanics and a 
sure hand. 

What has all this to do with letters? Didn't 
Goudy draw letters when he was a boy, since how 
could he have become the world's most prolific 
letter creator? Yes, he did. 

In 1881-82 Fred's family moved to Shelby ville, 
Illinois, a town south of Decatur, the county seat, 
in the coal mining and stock-raising district. As 
someone has said, "Today Shelby ville tries to re- 
member more about the lad and is surprised and 
more or less vexed that it can not." It was here that 
Fred made a steam engine. He still had his lathe. 
But he couldn't bore hard metal with a wood lathe 
and of course a steam engine had to be made of hard 
metal. But wait a minute ! He found that there was 
a metal called Babbitt metal which could be melted 
and poured. With considerable ingenuity he turned 
out a mould and a core of wood on his lathe and then 

[48] 



poured the soft Babbitt metal into it and had a 
cylinder. The steam engine worked. Goudy was to 
say later, "Anything which is to be done, and 
which it is humanly possible to do, may be done by 
anyone if he will set about it with enough persis- 
tence and patience, and if he lives long enough." 
This, indeed, is his philosophy. 

But it was in Shelby ville that Fred came to letters. 
There was a Presbyterian Church and the Sabbath 
School had a room of its own in the basement. It 
was a bare room, but Fred probably never noticed 
that until he got an occasional job as right-hand 
man to Asa Blankenship, the local paper-hanger. 
Asa, having been astonished at a trick young Fred 
had shown him in fitting a wall paper border around 
a curve, took Fred in to help him fix up the Sunday 
School room. 

When the walls were papered, Fred noticed that 
the top of the room looked empty. He got to thinking 
and finally suggested that a Bible quotation or two 
wouldn't look bad running around there. Asa said 
all right. But how are you going to get sentences onto 
a bare wall? You've got to have letters to do that. 
Fred Goudy had never made a letter in his life. But 
he thought he could. With nothing to copy from, he 
sat down and began to sketch on some brown manila 
paper, and there were the letters. Using these wrap- 
ping paper letters as patterns he marked them out on 
some strips of solid color wallpaper he'd bought, and 
laying the strips down on the paper hanger's table, 

[49] 



he cut them out with a pair of scissors; enough letters 
to say the Ten Commandments around the top of the 
room. He took the letters, spaced them on the long 
table to fit the spaces he had measured, then getting 
up on the tall ladder, he pasted them on the wall. 
They looked pretty fine. 

When this was done the trustees were so awe- 
struck with the effect that they consented when 
Fred, getting ambitious, asked if he could do the 
same thing and put more texts in the empty panels 
between the windows. He now made more letters to 
say the Beatitudes. He poked around in the local 
printing office and found a copy of the old-fashioned 
printer's Bible, the Bruce Specimen Boo\, and from 
this copied out some fancy corner pieces and an 
initial letter. He cut these out of gold paper. Com- 
bined with the original letters he'd drawn, the panels 
were now decorated. The people came and admired. 
Perhaps they felt they had an artist in their midst. 
Perhaps not. Years later, Goudy's friend Robert 
Ballou tried to find out if the walls of that room 
could be photographed so that the first letters of our 
great American letter master might be preserved. 
But alas, the havoc of the years had triumphed and 
what with many paperings and scrapings, Goudy's 
first letters had disappeared. How would they have 
looked, we wonder, beside his later creations? 

Now the scene changes. The boy grows up. His 
father wanted Fred to be a mechanical engineer. 

[50] 



Fred dreamed of the day when all Shelbyville would 
echo his praise as the world acclaimed him a great 
sign painter. But he was to be none of these, for in 
1883 after he had been in high school for two years 
(all the formal education he was to receive from the 
school masters) his father, ever the nomadic and 
restless, went off to the wilds of Dakota Territory. 
There on the Chicago 6? Northwestern Railroad, at 
the prairie hamlet of Highmore, not far from an 
Indian Reservation, the elder Goudy settled and 
went into partnership with a man named Parker in 
the real estate business, which in those days con" 
sisted mostly of the filing and proving of homestead 
claims. Before long John Goudy sent for his family 
and when he had been there a year or so he was 
appointed County Treasurer and later elected Judge 
of the Probate Court. Young Fred worked as clerk 
and bookkeeper in the office of Goudy 6? Parker and 
he nosed about in the two printing shops of the 
Highmore Bulletin and the Highmore Herald. Here 
for the first time he saw newspapers printed. 

There were not many schools of higher learning 
in Dakota Territory in the year 1884, an d anyone 
who had studied for two whole years in a High 
School back east (Illinois) was considered as fit mate- 
rial for a fine bookkeeper. So in 1889 when Fred got 
the wandering bug himself and went first to Mnv 
neapolis and later to Springfield, Illinois, he was able 
to get jobs keeping books in real estate offices. In 
these he got his first taste of advertising and layout 

[51] 



work, for realtors were then as now, prolific adver- 
tisers. Goudy tells how he used carefully to write 
out fool-proof instructions showing how he wanted 
advertisements he'd written to look in type. Then 
he would take them to the printer. What headaches 
those poor country printers must have had. How 
skeptically they would look at these elaborate lay- 
outs and scratch their heads. But when it was done 
to Goudy's final satisfaction, they had to admit "It 
looked all right." 

It's a little shocking for modern eyes to look at the 
state of advertising in the late 19th century. Few 
persons had ever heard of an advertising agency. The 
newspapers and magazines were filled with crude, 
barely readable, bold-faced cries to try this new 
union -suit (boldly illustrated) or this new thing 
called a bicycle, or this potent and "triple strength" 
patent medicine which would cure all ills in crea- 
tion. Printer's types were so bad and so powerful 
that they jumped at you from the printed page and 
socked you in the eye. There was no institutional 
copy, no market research, no fine art work, and no 
$100,000 a year advertising men with influence as 
great as that of a President. Funny looking furnaces 
and stoves were being shouted about; out-landish 
cloaks and suits for "ladies"; strange harnesses that 
hooked over the shoulders to hold up long cotton 
stockings; and torturous steel-ribbed corsets with 
long laces. It was a florid, ornate period when men 
shunned simplicity as they would a disease. 

[52] 



Yet Fred Goudy was trying to write and get 
printers to set up simple advertisements. He had a 
hard row to hoe. He was making his living as a 
bookkeeper but he knew, somehow, that he was not 
cut out to be one the rest of his life. Letters, instead 
of figures, were surging through his mind. He was 
unhappy. He didn't know exactly what, at twenty' 
eight, he wanted to do anyway. He rattled around 
at loose ends. He knew he was looking for something 
he couldn't find. 

Goudy went to Chicago. The last decade of the 
19th century had just begun. 

It was in Chicago that matters first began to 
assume a more definite form. He got a job in a 
realtor's office. Yet young Goudy had to plead with 
his employers to let him try something new in an 
advertisement he wanted to write for a man who 
had a house to sell out in Massachusetts. Goudy 
hunted around, got an old woodcut of a country 
house, wrote some copy and had a simple, plain 
advertisement set up which contrasted mightily 
with the garishness of surrounding advertisements. 
Goudy's ad wouldn't amount to anything, the boss 
said. But a couple of days after it appeared, a man 
came in. He said he had seen the advertisement and 
liked it well enough to go to Massachusetts and 
inspect the house. To think that the mere words he 
had written would send a stranger away across the 
country to look at that house and want to buy it 

[53] 



was an astounding idea to Goudy. It pleased him. 
It pleased his boss. It proved there was something 
powerful in the combination of pictures and type 
and ideas. But it had to be the right combination. 

Goudy had several jobs in Chicago, one of them 
with a visionary, high-pressure, financial wizard 
who operated an investment house and who spe- 
cialised in raising money for enterprises ... a man 
ahead of his time. It's hard to imagine the simple 
country boy in such a place. But it was a good place, 
for in it Fred met a person who made him forget 
the necessity of writing "come-on" advertisements. 
He met the young girl who was to become Bertha 
Goudy. He was also startled about this time to have 
an advertisement he had written accepted for publi- 
cation by Printers" In\. He felt this to be a good omen. 
He would work with type. 

The World's Fair in Chicago in 1893 had come 
and gone. Goudy set to learning about type and its 
use in printing and advertising. He even started a 
magazine audaciously called Modern Advertising 
with a cover by that other pioneer designer Will 
Bradley. This helped him get free-lance commissions 
in advertising and designing. But he was yet to 
design the first Goudy type-face. 

Once a man gets forms into his head, he's gone. 
There is nothing more disturbing. Whether it be 
forms of Grecian Columns, forms of perfect human 
bodies, forms of well-balanced machines, or forms 
of letters, he'll never get them out. They will never 

[54] 



let him alone, that is, if he's an artist. And Goudy 
was an artist, though he didn't know it then. For 
several years in Chicago he had been watching 
printers' types and the results printers were getting 
with them. He felt these results were something to 
weep over. Not only because printers were ill' 
informed and didn't care, but because the types they 
had to work with were so bad. 

At the end of the nineteenth century type design 
and printing were at the lowest ebb in history. As 
many students have remarked that in this murky and 
deadly era of American art, printing touched bot' 
torn. Type was not only crasy looking, but it was 
defeating its purpose by being impossible to read. 
Although a new light was shining from the pioneer 
work being done in England by prophets like 
William Morris, Charles Ricketts, Cobden'Sander' 
son and Sir Emery Walker (men chiefly responsible 
for the great English revival of good types and good 
printing), few men in America had seen their work 
and hardly a printer knew of their existence. The 
day of fine printing . . . that is, honest, simple and 
dignified printing . . . could not have been more remote 
when Fred Goudy drew his first letters for type. 
The time was ripe for a man who could lead against 
the dark elements of ignorance, confusion and in' 
difference and yank printers away from bad work to 
an appreciation of good work. This man was 
Frederic Goudy. But he didn't know it. 

[55] 



One summer evening in the year 1895, Goudy sat 
down by a window and without thinking of doing 
anything important he drew an alphabet of capital 
letters about half an inch high. He thought they 
were pretty good. In fact, he knew they were a 
darned sight better than those he had seen in sped" 
men books. He sent them to a Boston type foundry. 
Fortunately there was, at that time, a man at this 
foundry who knew merit when he saw it; the 
superintendent, John B. Williams, later vice-presi- 
dent of the Curtis Publishing Company. Goudy 
wrote a note saying he thought his letters ought 
to be worth five dollars. We can imagine his surprise 
when Williams wrote that they would take the 
alphabet and enclosed a ten dollar check ! Well, here, 
thought Goudy, was the solution to all his prob- 
lems. No more bookkeeping. He could now do the 
kind of work that made him most happy, and he 
could make a fortune. It had taken him an hour to 
draw one alphabet. For this he had obtained $10.00. 
Now there were ten hours in a working day — that's 
$100 a day. Six days in a working week — that's 
$600. But hold on here — 

Anyway, it was better than bookkeeping. 

About this time, when he was full of this new- 
born interest in letters, he met a kin -spirit in a 
young English teacher, C. Lauron Hooper. They 
became intimate friends. Goudy had heard about 
that master of masters, William Morris, the poet 
craftsman who was doing remarkable things at his 

[56] 



Kelmscott Press in England. A new inspiration 
was mounting in his mind and of this he talked long 
to Hooper. Hooper was fired by Goudy's enthusiasm 
and when he asked Goudy what he wanted most to 
do, Goudy said, start a press. It must be, he ex' 
plained, a press to do advertising but one founded 
on the fine craftsmanship of Morris and Ricketts. 
A big order for Chicago, but Hooper had faith in 
Goudy. He also had a few hundred dollars. They 
founded the press and called it The Booklet Press, 
set up in a space they had sublet in a printing shop 
at 296 South Dearborn Street. The equipment of 
this first press consisted of one 8x12 Gordon press, 
one stone, and a few fonts of type. This was how 
Goudy became a printer. "When I became innooi' 
lated with printers' ink,' 1 he says, "I was never 
again the same. 11 The name of the Press, when they 
moved into new quarters in the Caxton Building, 
was changed to Camelot, and that name was used 
by the Dickinson Foundry for those first letters 
Goudy had sold them for ten dollars. He shortly 
drew another alphabet and sent it to Dickinson. 
It was accepted but, while the Camelot type face 
was cast and offered for sale, this new one appar' 
ently never was. Not all type designs grow up into 
types. Goudy had a friend in Clarence Marder of 
Marder, Luce 6? Company, and for this firm he now 
drew a private type face, but though accepted and 
paid for, this too was evidently still-born. It was 
not very encouraging. 

[57] 



Then the book publishers, Stone and Kimball, 
came to Chicago fresh from Harvard University 
with their new ideas and their Chapboo\ magazine. 
They had heard of Goudy as a workman who loved 
good printing and knew how to do it. They gave 
him the job of printing the Chapboo\. The page was 
small and Goudy wanted a small yet legible type. 
He found one in a MacKellar, Smiths & Jordan 
catalogue called "Original Old Style" but a small 
face cast on a large body. It would not look close 
enough when set up. Now Goudy did something no 
printer he'd ever heard of had done before. He 
wanted this nine point face cast on an eight point 
body, which was very much like putting a nine 
year old boy into an eight year old siz;e breeches. It 
was against all rules but he got it done. Conserva- 
tive printers, when they saw the result in the 
Chapboo\ with its legible, neat, close-fitting type, 
were astonished. It was the talk of the trade. Fred 
T. Singleton, then editor of Poster Lore in Kansas 
City, said in the September issue, "Although 
totally uninstructed in the art of printing, Mr. 
Goudy took to it naturally, achieved considerable 
success and turned out work of decided originality. 
As to what Mr. Goudy will accomplish as a de- 
signer, it is hard to predict." 

Today volumes of that charming little magazine, 
the Goudy -printed Chapboo\, are treasured by 
collectors. Goudy's success with it was merely some 
ingenuity coupled with careful printing. And in an 

[58] 



age when there was hardly an iota of either, it was 
something new. Goudy was showing the way. And 
he was working hard at it. Oswald Cooper, de- 
signer of Cooper type, remembers how Goudy 
would sit up all night to get a job done on time and 
to beat the well known generalisation that all print- 
ers are the world's greatest procrastinators. 

The Camelot Press printed some interesting 
things, among them The Blac\ Art by the historian 
of type, Daniel Berkeley Updike. But the Camelot 
Press was not to last. A fellow came along (we 
would call him a go-getter today) saying he could 
"influence a lot of business," and would they take 
him in. They took him in. Goudy was not a sales- 
man, but he was interested in good printing. Every- 
thing was not all roses and moonlight in the Camelot 
Press now, and soon the good printer gave way to 
the entrepreneur. Goudy sold out, went to Detroit 
and got a job as cashier on a weekly paper, The 
Michigan Farmer. Here he found very little time to 
draw more type letters but he did make a few and 
sold some, notably the De Vinne Roman to the St. 
Louis Type Foundry. But this was no place for a 
man of letters. It was probably a good thing that 
he was fired, for it spurred him toward starting in 
business for himself. 

He felt he must now be through with bookkeep- 
ing and clerking forever and sink or swim as a free- 
lance designer of types and advertising. He went 
back to Chicago and opened an office in the Athe- 

[59] 



naeum Building where he began making new letters 
and lettering advertisements. He determined to go 
by the code he had formed when, in announcing 
the Camelot Press he had said, "We hope to incul- 
cate in those for whom printing is done, a love of 
harmony and simplicity. We propose to become the 
exponents of a style that cannot be assailed. " This 
was written over thirty-five years ago. It was truly 
a daring ambition then, as perhaps it is now. It was, 
however, an ideal that has ever since been Goudy's. 

Now in Chicago, as he thought, permanently, 
Goudy went on working at new letter designs, and 
hand-lettering ads and even books. He lettered one 
book by hand, Denslow's Mother Goose and the 
lettering was so attractive that The Inland Type- 
founders simply copied those letters, made a type 
of them and christened it, for some reason, Hearst. 
This sort of thing was to be an irritating factor in 
Goudy's life, for there was no way to protect 
original letters and type designs. Goudy's letters 
were copied far and wide, for which he got no 
credit and no cash. 

He also took jobs at this time lettering advertising 
for Marshall Field, Lyon 6? Healy, The Inland 
Printer, The Pabst Brewery, Mandel Brothers, 
Hart Schaffner and Marx, all extensive advertisers. 
It was here that he designed book covers and letter- 
ing for the book publishers, A. C. McClurg i£ 
Company, The Lakeside Press, and the map-makers, 
Rand-McNally. And he also designed private type 

[60] 



faces for clients, chief among them the rugged letter 
for the Pabst Brewery, now a type face known as 
Pabst Old Style. Advertising manager Powell, of 
Schlesinger 6? Mayer who had commissioned Goudy 
to do the Pabst, then went to Mandel Brothers and 
for the second time retained Goudy to make a 
special type design for advertising. Goudy honored 
Powell by naming this type after him. Goudy drew 
a number of new designs and sold them, but no 
type was ever cast from them. The market for new 
and better type faces was not very brisk, and he 
received very little encouragement for he was still 
working in the dark ages of good type. 

All Goudy 's types so far drawn had been for 
advertising. He now wanted to design a type face 
to print fine books. William Morris was a god to 
Goudy and, like Morris, he wanted to bring to 
peoples 1 eyes the image of things with which his 
heart was filled. He determined to print the finest 
books ever done in America. 

In 1903, when Theodore Roosevelt flashed the first 
message over the first cable laid in the Pacific to 
recall William Howard Taft from the Philippines 
to become his Secretary of War, Frederic W. Goudy, 
in the village of Park Ridge, near Chicago, was 
making American printing history with the inaugu- 
ration of The Village Press and The Village Type. 
This new type was Goudy *s first fine book face. It 
was another "first" in a larger sense. It was the 

[61] 



first American designed book face to be cut and 
cast from free-hand, original drawings of a type 
artist. "A startling innovation in those days when 
mechanical accuracy was the sine qua non of all type, 
at least in this country," says Will Ransom, his- 
torian of private presses. Village Type was born of 
the drawings Goudy made for Kuppenheimer 6? 
Company to use in advertising. For them Goudy 
received his inspiration in the illustrious work of 
both Morris and Walker. When the Kuppenheimer 
people found the cost of cutting and casting was 
going to be more than they expected, they gave 
Goudy his original drawings and thus Village Type 
also had a source in advertising. 

Up to this time only two or three other Ameri- 
cans had been designing type faces. It was still 
thought to be an old European art. The manner of 
designing a type had been to find one in an old book 
or hand-written manuscript, enlarge the letters and 
have a type foundry cut the metal matrices to cast 
type from. Some designers, like Bruce Rogers, with 
their own artistic ability to put into type, varied 
this by sketching over, free hand, the enlargements. 
However, such designing as Goudy saw it, was 
hardly more than copying, at the best, the forms of 
old types and letters already in existence. He felt it 
did not occur to most designers then that to accept 
early types and tradition without putting something 
of themselves into the new designs, was mere af- 
fectation. "He must learn," says Goudy, speaking 

[62] 




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THE 

OLD AND THE NEW 

A FRIENDLY DISPUTE 

BETWEEN JUVENIS St SENEX 
BY 

THEODORE LOWDEVINNE 

WITH A NOTE BY 

FREDERIC W. GOUDY 
if. 



MARLBOROUGH, N.Y. 

THE VILLAGE PRESS 

!933 



A Goudy title page 



of the type designer, "not to imitate masterpieces, 
but rather to follow the tradition on which master- 
pieces are reared.'' ' 

In 1903, when Goudy designed the Village Type, 
his aim was to make a useful thing beautiful as well 
as useful. For the Village Type he made a free hand 
drawing on paper, each letter separately, and in the 
right proportion, after a close study of how these 
letters had to fit in relation to each other in type. He 
was thus infusing into letters something of his own 
vigor and conception of beauty, and yet basing 
them on the limitations that tradition and use had 
imposed. 

All this was remarkable heresy in 1903. The few 
men doing good book work in America were lost 
in a desert of mediocre work of the majority. Bruce 
Rogers, Carl Purington Rollins, Daniel Berkeley 
Updike, and Thomas Cleland were then all working 
in Massachusetts. To the man on the street, to say 
nothing of the average commercial printer, these 
names meant nothing. The world was not con- 
sciously waiting with open arms for Frederic Goudy 
to give it better type-designs and finer printing! 
Goudy might have found some consolation in what 
Stanley Morrison, leading English typographer said : 
"The good type designer knows that, for a new 
fount to be successful, it has to be so good that only 
very few recognise its novelty. If readers do not 
notice the consummate reticence and rare discipline 
of a new type, it is probably a good letter." The 

[65} 



world did not even know that in Chicago in 1903 
was a man about whom John Clyde Oswald, speak- 
ing twenty years later would say, "Of all those 
identified with printing today, the name of Goudy 
is the only one that will be generally remembered a 
hundred years from now." Goudy was the man to 
bridge the gap from the great Italian type designers 
of the fifteenth century who had made the first 
Roman alphabet, to the present day. 

Now appears on the scene young Will Ransom. 
He wanted to learn about type and type designing, 
but when he had gone to the Art Institute in 
Chicago he found they could teach him nothing 
about either. They sent him to Goudy. Here was 
the master Ransom had hoped to find. When two 
printing enthusiasts get together, the result is 
usually a Press. Many years afterwards, in speaking 
at the exhibition of Village Press work (given to 
Vassar College by Mitchell Kennerley) Goudy re 
membered: "A young man turned up from a town 
in the state of Washington which was outlandishly 
named Snohomish. Those were the days when, as a 
wit of the time said, a young man would start a 
press instead of keeping a dog. 11 This wit must have 
been an Englishman. 

Will Ransom, the young man from the far West, 
had three hundred dollars. Goudy had the drawings 
he had made for the Kuppenheimer type. They both 
had courage and ambition and a strong mutual 
interest. Of all this the Village Press was born. The 

[66] 



Press was set up, on one hot July day in 1903, in a 
cleared -out space in Goudy 's barn at Park Ridge. 
There wasn't much equipment: one hand press, 
some type. But there was something infinitely more 
valuable in intangibles. Goudy and Ransom said, 
in their first announcement now scarce (a modest 
seventy-six copies were printed July 24, 1903) that 
"The founders of the press intend to make beautiful 
books of those things in literature which they 
enjoy . . . the books the printers have in mind will 
be strong and dignified, beautiful too, but of the 
whole rather than any one part. This strength will 
be a feature of their production.' ' The Goudy credo 
again ! 

That the two young founders of the now famous 
Village Press lived up to the promise of their pro- 
spectus, many collectors of Goudy's work will attest. 
How they ever did such good jobs with so little 
tangible equipment, the Lord only knows. They 
tell how they worked madly and forgot to wind the 
clocks. All hours looked alike. Goudy says they 
were like the surgeon who, explaining his high 
charge for removing a cataract, said he had spoiled 
a thousand eyes learning to do it. 

Picture the scene. Printers reading this will 
understand, because they know today that fine 
printing must be done in the proper temperature 
and a dust-free, light place. There were Fred Goudy 
and Will Ransom working night and day in a little 
space cleared out of an old barn, a draughty place 

[67] 



where in winter the snow and rain sifted through, 
and in summer dust and dirt collected. It was a 
place with no thermostatic control, no air condi- 
tioning, no proper heating. It was a place where 
there was plenty of confusion and disappointment 
but also enthusiasm. Yet out of this queer place 
came handsome books, for both men had a love for 
pure craftsmanship. 

Their first publication was, happily enough, the 
Essay on Printing by William Morris. Goudy de- 
signed the book, Ransom set the type, both of them 
did the press work and Mrs. Goudy the binding. 
Then came Rossettfs The Blessed Damozel, and 
Lamb's Dissertation on Roast Pig. Mrs. Goudy now 
took to setting type, for as Fred has said, she was a 
born craftsman. One day when he was in Chicago 
trying to earn some money to buy paper and ink, 
Bertha actually worked the press and printed in a 
red initial, with perfect register. No easy task with 
a hand press, as printers know. Now that Fred and 
Bertha were able to set the type, do the press work 
and bind the books, they bought out Will Ransom's 
interest and became full owners of the Village Press. 

The Village Press was a mobile outfit. In 1904 
it started off on its wanderings that were to last 
until 1923 when Goudy settled it down at Marl- 
boro -on -Hudson, New York. Its first step was east- 
ward. In Hingham, Massachusetts, there was, in 1904, 
a group called The Hingham Society of Arts and 
Crafts where loom weaving and other crafts were 

[68] 



carried on. Goudy took the Village Press and Village 
Type to Hingham where, surrounded by other 
craftsmen, he went to work, finishing Morris 1 The 
Hollow Land, a book begun at Park Ridge. Then 
came Browning's Rabbi Ben Ezra, Kipling's Gypsy 
Trail, LowelVs Poems (for the bibliographer P. K. 
Foley) and Massachusetts: An Address by Charles 
William Eliot, for which Goudy, when he wanted 
to give a copy to the Harvard Library some years 
afterwards, had to pay five times the publication 
price. Here too were printed pamphlets, broadsides 
and folders for the Hingham Society, all set in that 
first Village Type. There were other fugitive things 
now lost. 

But Goudy was no salesman. Money and food were 
often scarce, yet, indefatigable worker that he is, 
Goudy kept on printing and drawing new letters. 
He also had the opportunity, being near the great 
libraries in Boston and Cambridge, to look into the 
work of famous type men and printers of the past. 
It was at Hingham that an incident occurred of which 
Goudy likes to tell. One day a "prospect 1 '' for some 
books came into the shop. After they had talked 
and Goudy had interested him in good printing, he 
noticed it was noon and, without thinking, invited 
the man to lunch. Mrs. Goudy noticed both the 
men coming toward the house, and sensing what 
had occurred, began a frantic search thru the near- 
empty cupboards, knowing that dinner was, at best, 
to have been a slim affair. There was little food in the 

[69] 



house, and no money, but at last she discovered a can 
of corn and a bag of flour. With these as material, and 
knowing no alternative, she quickly stirred up an 
oversized batch of corn fritters, feeling that what the 
meal lacked in variety, she would make up in quan- 
tity. For syrup, she boiled down brown sugar with 
water, and as they sat down to dinner, still lost in 
discussion, she served them sibling corn fritters. It 
seemed there was food for a dosen men, but rapidly 
the great heap of fritters began to dwindle. Mrs. 
Goudy breathed a sigh of relief as the guest found 
time, between re-helpings to praise her culinary skill. 
The meal was a success — for the guest remained, 
bought the books and left a generous check. 

Yet in spite of pleasant interludes the Hingham 
sojourn was short-lived. Evidently Fred Goudy the 
craftsman didn't fit into a " society" of craftsmen. 
The funny thing about individuals is that you can't 
organise them! Besides, Goudy was now ready for 
the "big time" and the big town. Although he did 
not know it, it was time for New York. In 1906, just 
as the fiery Roosevelt I was giving the world a 
treat by acting as a peace-maker at Portsmouth, 
New Hampshire, Goudy arrived in New York City. 

Goudy is fond of saying that his success is largely 
due to luck. Apart from other things we have been 
talking about, his success is due to his strong ca- 
pacity for making friends. It was friendship with 
Mitchell Kennerley that was later responsible for 

[70] 



the creation of Goudy's first well known type face, 
Kennerley Old Style. This type caused a bright 
furore in the world of books, printers and adver- 
tising men. Kennerley was the first type made by 
an American that English printers accepted and 
are still using. For 500 years Europe, birthplace of 
printing, had been the fount of all inspiration and 
knowledge of good types. Now a fine book face was 
born in America! Kennerley type took hold. Its 
success was international. A British authority (and 
catch the British praising things American unless 
they are worth it) had called this type "the most 
beautiful type put within reach of English printers 
since the first Caslon began casting about the year 
1724." That was a pretty strong statement, for he 
seemed willing to sweep aside practically all the type 
design in his country for more than 200 years in favor 
of this new American designed face. It was, indeed, 
somewhat of a novelty in English recognition. An- 
other authority on printing and on literature and 
art as well said, " It is a big thing to create a type 
face that may live through centuries. Artists paint 
pictures, and we look and are pleased; write poems, 
and we read our way to ecstasy; compose music, and 
in listening we are inspired; but a really beautiful type 
face, that combines simplicity with practicability, 
that conforms to the* untranslatable spirit of its 
own age, becomes much more a part of the daily life 
of every one of us, than any picture, or poem, or 
musical composition." 

[71] 



When Goudy designed Kennerley type, he had 
been in New York City for about five years. He had 
set up his press on the twelfth floor of the old Parker 
Building on Fourth Avenue and Nineteenth Street. 
Still designing letters, drawing covers for books, 
writing ads, printing books, (Goudy, as I have said, 
was no salesman) he did not yet make much money. 
He was never able to earn a living as a book printer. 
One day funds got so low that, in order to get from 
near Columbia University where they lived, down 
to the Parker Building, he and Bertha had to shake 
down their son's bunny bank for two nickels. But 
on that same day in walked, unheralded, Henry 
M. MacCracken, the father of the present head of 
Vassar College. In Goudy, Dr. MacCracken found 
a kindred soul. They talked. Dr. MacCracken stayed 
and looked at the fine books and finally bought seven- 
teen dollars worth. Seventeen dollars! Noon had 
passed and no lunch. Dr. MacCracken took his 
books and walked toward the elevator. Goudy says 
that he and Bertha didn't wait to take the elevator 
down — that was too slow. They took the seventeen 
dollars, rushed out, and almost slid down the back 
stairs, beating Dr. MacCracken down by several 
seconds. But this good luck was not to last. A sud- 
den catastrophe befell the Village Press and the 
Goudys. One night a fire destroyed the entire Parker 
Building. All the equipment, the presses, the only 
Village type in existence, the only complete set of 
Village Press books, all Goudy's proofs of new type 

[72] 




Copyright Mooney 



Goudy at Deepdene, 1932 



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LIBRARY 

OF THE 

UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 



designs, drawings of old and new letters . . . every- 
thing wasMestroyed. The work of years had gone 
up in smoke, or had been melted down and run into 
the cellar. 

Now at fortythree Goudy was right back where 
he had started. There was no type, no press and no 
money. Up to this time he had designed fifteen type 
faces and twelve of these were in use. He had drawn 
his first type design for the machine for the Lanston 
Monotype Company. But still, he was little known 
in America. Shortly after the fire, he set up a cramped 
cubby -hole office in the corner of another office. But 
a place where there was not as much as a composing 
stick was no place for a printer. Goudy wanted to 
touch type and think type in order to draw new 
type designs. But most of all, he now realised that 
he wanted to learn more. He got the scholar's bug. 

One evening in 1909, as he was walking with 
Bertha on the beach at Brighton, Goudy looked out 
across the Atlantic and saw in his mind's eye the 
land he had always wished to visit. The cradle of 
printing, the seat of learning, the place where his 
great master Morris had worked. And there too 
would be the great Caslon foundry, the Bodleian 
Library, the British Museum, and other repositories 
full of the typographic treasures of all time. And 
there too would be men from whom he could learn. 
So he said : 

"I wish I could go to Europe." 

Mrs. Goudy was direct. "Why don't you?" she 

[77] 



said. That settled it. He went to Europe and it was 
there that his dreams assumed new form in his mind. 
Up to this time he had not thought of himself as a 
type designer. He was more a printer of fine books. 
The European trip shifted the emphasis. He came 
back full of new ideas and ready for his best work. 

Some day when a future historian writes the com- 
plete history of American publishing and of arts and 
letters, they will have to reserve a place for Mitchell 
Kennerley. Many writers have already paid tribute 
to his publishing genius and taste, not the least of 
them being Mr. Christopher Morley, who took the 
occasion to say in his book John Mistletoe, ". . . such 
a history would have to record that Kennerley, more 
than any other editor, was first to remark and put 
between covers (either in The Forum or in books) 
much of the finest stuff of our day . . . Kennerley was 
unquestionably the first modern publisher in the 
country in the particular sense in which the word 
is used nowadays.'' 1 

Mitchell Kennerley with his keen sense for good 
work saw that Goudy was a man who loved the 
virtues of another day and was successful in putting 
them into modern life with his types and printing. 
Mitchell Kennerley gave Goudy his opportunity. He 
began to do book title-pages, drawn by hand; initial 
letters and ornaments for books; publisher's im- 
prints and marks; the cover of The Forum Magazine', 
covers for books; lettered advertisements, and many 
other kinds of work. It was also in Kennerley 's offices 

[78] 



that Goudy got to know people in the world of art 
and literature; Bliss Carman, Richard Le Gallienne, 
Edgar Saltus, Thomas Mosher, Edgar Lee Masters, 
William Marion Reedy, and many others. He felt he 
belonged in this sort of world. 

Kennerley, Goudy 's first patron, was about to 
publish a book of short stories by H. G. Wells 
entitled The Door in the Wall. He had retained 
Goudy to design the book. Goudy had, at first, a 
type page set up in eighteen point American Caslon. 
But when he looked at this specimen page (it was a 
large book about eleven by fifteen inches) it bothered 
him. He saw the open, loose quality that the Ameri- 
can foundry, bastard Caslon had and still has. He 
knew it was wrong. But how to make it right? Goudy 
explained how he wanted the page more compact, 
more solid, more closely knit together and more read- 
able. But there was no appropriate type to be had 
to make such a page. 

"Well, I can make one," said Goudy. 

"Go ahead,' ' said Kennerley. This was the chance 
that Goudy had been waiting for. He had been in- 
spired while in Europe by the handsome type that 
old Bishop Fell had given the Clarendon Press at 
Oxford several hundred years ago. He had this in 
mind but as he started to sketch out the new letters, 
an original expression of beauty and utility seemed 
to appear. There was no trace of Fell in it. Goudy 
kept the intrinsic strength and dignity of the Fell 
type in the back of his head, but he was now work- 

[79] 



ing to an end. That end was to create a new type 
face that would make a well-knitted page of type 
and yet be the most legible type in existence. The 
drawings for the Kennerley type were completed 
February 18, 191 1 and were obviously named after 
Mitchell Kennerley. Mrs. Goudy began at once to 
set by hand specimen pages in the new type for the 
Wells book. Mr. Kennerley said,"Mr. Goudy did not 
himself realise when he had completed his task, how 
fine a thing he had given to the world." 

At the same time Goudy began drawing a new 
letter based on his studies of the original Roman 
letters cut in stone on the Trajan Column at Rome 
during the first century. One week later this type 
was completed. In this singularly short time Goudy 
had given birth to his two famous types. He shortly 
moved to a new house in Forest Hills, Long Island 
and there he set up the Village Press again and now 
a Village Letter Foundry where he sold the two new 
types, Kennerley Old Style and Forum Title. Here 
for the first time in modern history a type designer 
was selling his own types. 

Now kept at work by Kennerley and others, Goudy 
was past the danger of want. Knowing where his 
next meal was coming from he settled down to turn 
out new type designs and to print more fine books 
for Kennerley and others. It was here that he made 
his first contribution to scholarship in his two books, 
The Alphabet and Elements of Lettering. This mid- 

[80] 



western expatriate, with no "formal education' ' was 
now to give to the science of paleography its finest 
modern book, not only in its sound grasp of history 
and principles of lettering, but also in the plates of 
letter designs Goudy drew for the books. In The 
Alphabet Goudy again stressed his code. "As there 
is no recipe for design, neither is there one for the 
making of letters; but some knowledge of their his- 
tory and development is necessary, as well as a taste 
enlarged by study and analysis of beautiful forms, 
together with the ability to feel the charm of well 
designed legible pages." In Elements of Lettering 
Goudy kept to the same theme. "Beauty is the inher- 
ent characteristic of simplicity, dignity, harmony, 
proportion, strength. 1 ' 1 

The Alphabet published by Mitchell Kennerley 
went through six editions and is still the classic 
hand-book on that subject. One has only to look at 
the small library of other books on letters published 
during the past fifty years to see how Goudy's work 
stands out. Just a page from one of his books beside 
a page from one of others, tells the story. Goudy's 
feet were on the ground. Goudy was a true, natural 
scholar, because he did not try to write about things 
he had never done. Most of the other authors were 
professors who wrote deep erudite treatises on theory 
or gentlemen who could not possibly have drawn 
a good letter to save their necks. One proud author 
of a lettering book had, as a frontispiece, a lovely 
photograph of himself and his beautiful curly-headed 

[81] 



daughter. Under it was the caption that "she helped 
me with the book. 1 ' So it appeared. Some of these 
letters were pretty good for a ten year old ! 

At Forest Hills Goudy felt sure at last that type 
designing, not fine book printing, was his real work, 
and while he kept the Village Press, it became now 
more of a designing and experimental laboratory. He 
started, with the late Hal Marchbanks as publisher 
and printer, a magazine called Ars Typographica de- 
voted to fine printing and type, really the forerunner 
of all present day magazines about typography. In 
looking at this attractive publication now it is aston- 
ishing to see how far ahead of its time it was, not 
only in editorial opinion, but in the way it was de- 
signed and printed. It was too good for its time. Out 
of some one thousand subscribers only two hundred 
were printers, the rest being bibliophiles and typo- 
graphic collectors. 

But national recognition was not yet at hand. One 
American writer on types and printing history, 
William Dana Orcutt of Boston, had published a 
book on the subject and passed over Goudy. Amer- 
ica wasn't ready to recognize Goudy. It was from 
England that his first real recognition came. 

In the year before the World War, Fred Goudy 
went to Europe again. It was odd how this came 
about. Friendship again . . . luck again? Who knows? 
Goudy's types were now making him friends he had 
never seen. Kennerley and Forum were his ambas- 
sadors. One friend the new types made was pub- 

[82] 



lisher Earle of The Lotus who had seen the Kennerley 
type in Goudy's catalogue and wouldn't rest until 
The Lotus was set in it. He was the first man to use 
it after its initial use in Kennerley's American edition 
of the Wells book. Earle greatly admired Goudy. 
While in Europe in 191 2 he had shown specimens of 
Goudy type to the Caslons, descendants of the great 
Caslon of the eighteenth century, still running a 
type foundry in England. They at once saw merit in 
Goudy 's types. They very carefully intimated that 
they would like to see this Mr. Goudy and some 
more of his work. Earle told Goudy and he went to 
see them. It did not take long for the Caslons to buy 
from him the right to make and sell Kennerley Old 
Style, Forum Title and Goudy Old Style types. This 
last (later called Goudy Antique, and now Goudy 
Lanston) was named Ratdoldt by the Caslons in 
their Goudy catalogue.* 

English printers accepted Goudy's types at once. 
Kennerley Old Style and Forum Title were every- 
where. Mitchell Kennerley recalls a letter from his 
brother in England which reported that one day 
while visiting a small printer in Northern England, 
he (Kennerley's brother) was surprised to have the 
printer show him Kennerley type. Its fame and use 

*In this connection it is interesting to note that some years later Goudy heard 
the Kelmscott Press was offering for sale the Albion printing press that had 
been used by the great Morris himself in printing the Kelmscott Chaucer. 
He bought it and first set it up in the Anderson Galleries, New York, then 
owned by Mitchell Kennerley. Here Goudy gave exhibitions and printed on 
it the only separate edition of Edna St. Vincent Millay's Renascence. Here was 
the printer who, back west, had dreamt about Morris, admired his work and 
his ideals; now he had Morris' own press. 

[83] 



had spread even into the hinterland. Authorities on 
typography and journals of the trade talked about 
nothing but Goudy's Kennerley type. The English 
edition of Updike's history of types gave Goudy 
tribute. 

All this news traveled back to America. America 
was being taunted for failing to see a good man 
under her own nose. At last Goudy's own country 
woke up and recognised him ... a belated honor. 

The American Type Founders Company, then vir- 
tually a monopoly of type-founding in this country, 
at last realised there was a designer named Goudy. 
They hired him and he designed Goudy Old Style, 
inspired by letters on a painting by Holbein. For 
this, called the father of all Goudy types, they paid 
him $1,500 and from it, one hears, they sold many 
thousands of dollars worth of type. Then they took 
this one design and, as Milton MacKaye aptly re- 
marks, "made three types sprout where one had 
grown before." They cast Goudy Old Style and 
from the small caps they enlarged a new type they 
called Goudy Title. Then they had their own de- 
signer draw a bold Roman and a bold Italic from 
the Goudy Old Style. Then their designer tooled out 
the middle of these types to make an outline type 
they called Goudy Handtooled. Thus three new 
faces sprang up without benefit of or to Goudy, and 
started the Goudy family of types that today occupy 
a catalogue of their own. This displeased Fred 

[84] 



Goudy, though it was all perfectly legal. Fred felt 
he was not planting type designs to grow up and 
multiply into new ones he had nothing to do with. 
He "got wise." As he grew older he became a better 
business man and thereafter determined to sell type 
designs on a different basis. 

In 191 8 Goudy designed Hadriano which, as Time 
Magazine records, "Started with a rubbing from an 
inscription in the Louvre in Paris when the guards 
were not looking, finished by three a.m. the next 
morning. M The type was not copied, however, but 
built up, someone has said, "as prehistoric animals 
were constructed by anthropologists from a rib 
bone." In 1920 he took a step forward when he be- 
came art director of Lanston Monotype Machine Co. 

Goudy had now caught up with the times and 
was making designs for a machine that could turn out 
many pages of type while a man was hand-setting 
one page. Recognition of Goudy by the Lanston 
Monotype Machine Company started a new era in 
machine types. Before this time new types had been 
designed for the foundry which cast type for hand- 
setting ; from now on the best designers worked for 
the machine-made type concerns. Both the Mono- 
type Company and the Linotype Company began to 
blossom out with better type faces. 

Goudy's first design for Lanston was the Gara- 
mont, modelled from the caracteres de TUniversite 
of the Imprimerie Nationale. These letters, inspired 
by Claude Garamond's cutting, proved to be the 

[85] 



first machine-set type sensation in history. They say 
that in a few weeks over $65,000 worth of this one 
face was sold. Not only was it a success for the com' 
mercial printer, but fine printers and amateurs every- 
where fell in love with this type. Books and maga- 
zines were set in it. The American Mercury was the 
first national magazine to employ Garamont and a 
beautiful magazine it was then. Goudy's alliance 
with a machine-set type company was a fortunate 
one for it enabled him to make type designs that 
would be available to all printers far and wide . . . 
and this was what he wanted. 

In 1923 Goudy found the haven he had sought all 
his life. Because he had been lucky (so he says) and 
years before had bought a lot at Forest Hills, New 
York, for fifty dollars down and because real estate 
had boomed and allowed him to sell for good money, 
he was able to buy at Marlboro -on -Hudson a beau- 
tiful old colonial place built about 1750. He calls it 
Deepdene. There is a deep dene or glen down one 
side of the wooded grounds and at the bottom runs 
a brook. It flows quietly under an old arched] stone 
bridge and then falls swiftly over high rocks in a 
white spray. Right beside the falls is an old mill 
where cotton cloth was once made with the power 
of an overshot waterwheel. This was to be the home 
of the Village Press and the Village Letter Foundry. 
With the aid of native workmen the mill and the 
house were restored to their original eighteenth 

[86] 



century state. Both are set down in the middle of 
beautiful, quiet grounds, shadowed by tall trees, 
truly a place to work. It is also a Mecca for printers 
and type men who come from all over the world to 
see Goudy. It was at Deepdene that Goudy, at sixty, 
an age when most men stop work, began work of a 
new kind. He set up a foundry of his own. 

It was here that Goudy decided to cut letter 
patterns and cast the metal type himself, instead of 
leaving it to some commercial foundry that might not 
bother with the accuracy "you can't see." Once the 
processes and the machines were worked out and set 
up, Goudy, with the aid of his wife and son, did the 
job. Goudy still works here on this old-world estate 
very much as a careful artisan would have worked 
centuries before. Of course he has machines the old 
workers didn't dream of, but the spirit is the same 
and so are the results. 

When Goudy designs a new type face for the 
Monotype machine he is not satisfied with drawing 
the letters on cardboard and sending the drawings 
along to the Company. He feels he has to go through 
the whole series of operations; cast the actual type, 
have a page set up and then print something with it 
so he can see just how the new design is going to look 
when printed. That one point is important. It takes 
infinite patience and skill to do all this. After he has 
the proof, perhaps the tail of a " Q" is not just as he 
wants it. He goes way back — there's no erasing in 
type design — and makes a new nine-inch letter with 

[87] 



pencil on cardboard, cuts it out, makes a metal pat- 
tern with the first pantograph machine, a brass mat- 
rix with the second pantograph, takes the matrix 
downstairs and casts a piece of type in a machine 
that throws hot lead against the matrix, sets this 
type up, puts it on a press and takes a proof. All this 
to change the tail of that plaguy "Q." Talk about 
the capacity for taking pains ! 

The New York newspapers, in celebrating one of 
Goudy's birthdays with editorials said, "There is 
not a literate person in the United States today in 
whose behalf he has not labored/ ' There is not much 
one can add to that. But there are two more things 
to be said before we leave Goudy, now over seventy, 
but still hard at work at Deepdene, full of interna- 
tional honors, esteemed by all. 

One of the things to be said is this; when the dis- 
tinguished printer George W. Jones got up to speak 
at the occasion of the presentation to Goudy of the 
Gold Medal of the American Institute of Graphic 
Arts, he paid this subtle and laconic tribute to 
America's type master. " Fred Gaudy," he said, " has 
never done anything to hurt typography." When 
George Jones said that, he could only have been 
thinking of the harm that has been done to the art of 
typography . . . harm in the form of careless, badly 
conceived, illy-executed type faces . . . harm in the 
fancy, bizarre, novelty type faces of the moment and 
not of all time. Mr. Jones could have been thinking 

[88] 



of the harm done Dy poor, feeble, slipshod and igno- 
rant printing through the years . . . the kind of print- 
ing that Fred Goudy himself characterised by these 
words, "Bad printing in the past was due largely 
to bad types ; today both to bad types and bad use 
of good types/ 1 

That Fred Goudy has never done printing any 
harm, is of course a delightful way of saying that 
Fred Goudy has done it all good. He has made types 
so individual and interesting that another English 
critic remarked that Goudy has "restored to the 
Roman alphabet much of the lost humanistic char- 
acter inherited by the first Italian printers from the 
scribes of the Renaissance." 

Once, at Deepdene, when there were half a hun- 
dred pilgrims there to see Goudy at work (many 
were young women), one enthusiastic young crea- 
ture called brightly; "Oh, Mr. Goudy ... do tell us 
. . . where do you get all your ideas for letters?" 

An hour or so later some of Goudy's friends who 
had stayed on after the place had quieted down were 
talking about this consuming curiosity of the public. 
Goudy laughed, "People come up here and look care- 
fully through the old mill. They see it full of ma- 
chines but they keep on looking for something else. I 
try to explain to them that I use the machines to re- 
duce my letter designs into type. But they don't 
believe me. They act as if I had something hidden 
around the place . . . something I won't show them. 
When I convince them that this mill and my hands, 

[89] 



are all I have to show . . . they go away convinced 
that letter designing is solely a job for a fairly good 
machinist . . . and nothing more/'' 

Later we fell to discussing an article someone in 
Europe had written about type designing. This was 
the only time I ever saw Goudy really ruffled. A 
week before we both had attended a luncheon of 
New York typographers and there the wise young 
men had roundly criticised the work of an older de- 
signer because it was traditional ! This English arti- 
cle said, among other things, "The plain fact is that 
progress in type design is only possible to a crafts- 
man disciplined to deny himself the luxury of per- 
sonal feelings ... as this is too much to demand of 
an artist, it is clear that type designing is not an 
artist's job." 

Goudy rose. "In the name of all the Gods that be," 
he said, "whose job is it, if not an artist's job?" 

On one hand the New Yorkers in America had 
laughed at tradition, and on the other, men in Eng- 
land said that tradition was the only thing. It's a 
queer world. 

I am not setting up shop as a critic of Goudy's work, 
but this story would hardly be complete without a 
suggestion of what, in the opinion of one writer on 
the subject, Frederic Goudy's job has done for 
American typography. Mr. Paul Johnston, author of 
Biblio Typographies in one of the last issues of the 
Fleuron published perhaps the most carefully rea- 

[90] 



soned estimate of what Goudy has accomplished. He 
pointed out how the eighteenth and nineteenth cen- 
turies witnessed a certain impersonality in American 
typography because American printers were obliged 
to import types and styles from Europe, and even 
when punch-cutting began in the United States it 
stemmed obviously from England or Scotland. Thus 
the first one hundred and fifty years of American 
printing were purely derivitive — the styles of type 
and their manner of use were indeed wholly foreign. 
Even in the deadly nineteenth century when typog- 
raphy went to pot, America steadily continued to 
import new "typographical horrors," as Mr. John- 
ston aptly calls them. 

Of course Morris' work, as Johnston shows, was 
felt in America especially at Boston through the 
medium of Updike and Rogers but, as I have men- 
tioned earlier, the work of the Boston school was 
barely heard of by the common printer in this coun- 
try. In fact the run-of-the-mill printer for commerce, 
inspired by the degenerating influence of that Belial 
of American typography, Elbert Hubbard, was pur- 
suing a course diametrically opposed to the pioneer 
work of Updike, Rollins and Rogers. Mr. Johnston 
emphasises Goudy's work by stacking it up against 
this background. "It was the part of Frederic W. 
Goudy to help the general printer in America to un- 
derstand and to learn from the movement which be- 
gan with Morris. And it is to Mr. Goudy that 
American printing owes much of the strength and 

[91] 



charm which may be claimed for the common as well 
as the fine work today. " 

Mr. Johnston's summing-up of Mr. Goudy's case 
is of special interest. 

"Mr. Goudy's work," he wrote, "is most impres- 
sive against the background of American typography 
during the past thirty years. It began just at the time 
when the consolidation of type foundries in the 
United States tended towards the standardisation of 
type design. With the elimination of competition, 
there seemed to be little encouragement of creative 
work, and as the years passed the craft of type design 
almost reached the point of stagnation. The revival 
of fine printing was not strong enough more than 
slightly to affect the situation. Mr. Updike imported 
from England and the Continent several types he 
considered of better form than he could obtain in the 
United States and commissioned two or three new 
designs. Mr. Bruce Rogers, more able than anyone 
else to produce attractive work from the meagre as- 
sortment of types American typefounders can sup- 
ply, also sought the best of European letters, and he 
designed two types as a better conquest of his own 
ideal of typographical variety. But Goudy felt the 
need for creative work in the service not only of the 
limited edition and the private patron, but of the 
general printer in town and country. American 
printers have shown by their response to Mr. 
Goudy's lead that they are not slow to accept his 
fine material and more than ready to use it worthily." 

[92] 



Fred Goudy did not become a faddist and, making 
handwork his fetish, disappear into the eighteenth 
century, nor did he remain wholly in the twentieth 
century and refuse to look at anything over ten years 
old. He did what all good artists find that inner 
necessity of doing: he took good principles and in- 
spirations of the past, assimilated them and made 
good things for today. 

Perhaps it is fitting that Ernest Elmo Calkins have 
the last word here about Fred Goudy. 

"The first time I saw Goudy he was an Old 
Master. He brings to his work the fine, unselfish 
spirit of an earlier age." And Mr. Calkins spoke pure 
headlines when he finished by saying, "He is an old 
style face on a modern body." There, indeed, is the 
secret, if there be any secret, of Frederic W. Goudy. 



C93] 



Postlude 



It is a sad task to record the destruction of The Vill- 
age Letter Foundry, known to many as Deepdene. 

On the 26th of January, 1939, at half past four on 
one of the coldest mornings of the year, Frederic 
Goudy was rudely awakened by the shriek of a fire 
siren. Looking out of the bedroom window, against 
the dawn he saw a bright red glow behind the mill. 
The bowl of sky was lit up, throwing out in sharp 
relief the black hulk of the mill. Something was burn- 
ing fiercely and to Goudy it looked like the house 
across the creek. But as he watched, a sheet of sudden 
flame burst out of the west end of the old building 
itself. He walked back and sat down on the bed. He 
knew all too well what it was . . . 

He hurried into his clothes. Stunned by the shock 
of discovery, he found logical thought impossible. 
Confusedly he pulled cold shoes over naked feet and 
then tried to draw on his stockings. He only knew 
that he must get out and see if anything could be 
saved. He could not help but think of that other fire 
thirty-one years before, when The Village Press and 
all that he and Bertha had owned had been com- 
pletely wiped out by the destruction of the old 
Parker building in New York. As he sat there in the 

[94] 



bedroom at Deepdene he heard a pounding on the 
front door downstairs. A young man from the neigh- 
boring Pagentine family was trying to awaken the 
household to tell them where the fire was. Soon 
young Frederic rushed up the stairs and Goudy and 
his son stood there together in the cold air of the 
open window. 

The fire had been discovered by Henry Berean, 
who worked at Velio's greenhouse on the hill south 
of Deepdene. Berean had telephoned the Marlbor- 
ough Hose Company. In a very few minutes the 
firemen were there, stringing 350 feet of hose to a 
little pond in Jew's Creek. But just as fast as the icy 
water struck the roaring mass of flame it started 
freezing and disappeared in clouds of hissing steam. 
The boards and timbers of the old mill had been dry 
ing for 150 years. They burnt like fine tinder. 

Fred Pesevento, another neighbor from across the 
creek, saw the fire before it had spread throughout 
the building. He said it began in the lower story 
where the oil-burning furnace was. In a short time, 
the blaze had gained such a head start there was no 
stopping it. The firemen played two hose on the 
ruins for about four hours and were able to prevent 
the flames leaping across to Goudy's house or to the 
nearer houses across the creek. Alice, young Fred- 
eric Goudy's wife, made a desperate and heroic at- 
tempt to enter the burning mill and rescue some of 
the precious drawings and matrices, but the flames 
and intense heat drove her back. 

[95] 



By the time Goudy could get dressed and walk 
across the snow-covered grounds to stand a safe dis- 
tance from the scorching heat, there was little left of 
the old mill where, for sixteen years, he had done his 
best work. He stood for a little while shivering from 
the bitter cold and nervous reaction. Then, faced 
with the realization of how utterly helpless he was 
to do anything, he turned, walked back to the library 
of the house and watched his beloved workshop 
disappear in the flames. 

At nine o'clock the once beautiful, eighteenth cen- 
tury structure Goudy had so carefully restored, was 
a black skeleton, fantastically embellished with white 
icicles. Built in 1790, and known to local people as 
the Buckley mill, it had been taken over in 181 1 by a 
weaver named Buckley and used by him until 1861 
for the manufacture of cotton cloth and satin. A 
painstaking craftsman, Buckley had, in 183 1, won the 
American Institute Award. Besides giving his name 
to the mill, he had begun there the tradition for fine 
work which Frederic Goudy had so fittingly con- 
tinued. But on this January morning in 1939 there 
was nothing left but a gaunt, charred gable, rearing 
drunkenly into the air and held up by twisted bits of 
dimensional timber in the roof. Once again, for 
Fred Goudy, years of work had gone up in smoke or 
had been melted into fused metal in the cellar. 

As Goudy remained at the library window watch- 
ing, it seemed to him that this could not be his affair 
at all. He felt curiously detached from the awful 

[96] 



thing that was going on ... it could not be happen- 
ing to him. At Deepdene, since 1923, he had spent 
the most interesting and happiest days of his life. 
Here were born the designs he had hoped would 
make printing better . . . here were the tools he had 
gathered, invented, made . . . and the machines he 
had worked with. And the whole place was heavy 
with memories of Bertha and his many friends. "I 
knew that something had gone from me that can 
never be regained,' ' Goudy said. 

He ate his breakfast and was driven to the station 
by Alice where he took the ten o'clock train for New 
York. Gathering his papers and designs he went to 
keep his engagement there just as if nothing had hap- 
pened. "It might have been worse," he said as he got 
on the train, "after all, we're still here." Later in New 
York City, still hardly reconciled to the enormity of 
the disaster, Goudy was able to say, "It's not really 
all gone up in smoke. The effect of my work, its influ- 
ence on printing and typography, can't be destroyed." 

Totally destroyed with the mill were the free- 
hand drawings for most of the 107 Goudy type faces 
as well as all the matrices for some 75 Goudy fonts. 

While there is a considerable amount of type on 
the market already cast from these matrices lost in 
the fire, it is probable that as soon as this is worn out 
no more can be made unless it is possible, by photo- 
graphic enlargements of the type now in existence, to 
create new patterns and matrices from them. For- 
tunately the drawings for Goudy's 107th type face 

[97] 



just completed for the University of California Press 
had been mailed a few days before the fire to the 
Lanston Monotype Company. Another slight but 
mitigating circumstance lay in the fact that Goudy 
had recently sold to the Monotype Company twenty 
of his designs and had sent them these drawings and 
matrices. Saved too were a few Goudy patterns and 
drawings on exhibition at Columbia University. De- 
stroyed beyond recovery, however, were thousands 
of dollars worth of matrices for Goudy type faces 
and some five tons of type already cast. Gone were 
the famous matrice engraving and pantograph ma- 
chines, the type casters, lathes, drill presses, milling 
machines, and a wealth of general printing and me- 
chanical equipment, along with a monotype caster 
and the hand press on which William Morris had 
printed some of the Kelmscott Press books. This his- 
toric and priceless relic crashed through the burning 
floors and landed some fifty feet below, badly broken, 
on top of an old vault in the cellar. Also consumed 
was a collection of rare books Goudy had unfortu- 
nately carried to his workshop the day before. There 
was only $8,000 worth of insurance. 

In addition to all these things, gone forever were 
some fifty galleys of new chapters and material for a 
revised edition of Goudy's book, The Alphabet. It had 
been standing in type for some time, awaiting a prom- 
ised introduction by Christopher Morley. To this 
Goudy had planned to add the text of The Elements of 
Lettering with new material and changes which, to- 

[98) 



gether, would have made a comprehensive and notable 
book on lettering. Painful was the realisation to Fred 
Goudy, that these fifty galleys of type had been the 
work of his son Frederic who had begun to take an 
interest in type composition and who had worked so 
hard to do this job well. Fortunately a proof had 
been taken of the type. Another loss of no mean 
proportion was the type for a new book to be called 
Recollections of B. M. G., but by lucky chance this 
too existed in proofs and is now being re-composed 
by Howard Coggleshall for an early printing. 

The total loss, however, is a grevious one that can 
never be measured in terms of money. 

The Smithsonian Institute had planned to set up a 
permanent exhibit of Goudy 's work at Washington, 
and another collection of his designs and working 
materials was planned for the 1939 World's Fair in 
New York City. Goudy had also been dickering 
with, and was about to sell his remaining designs to 
the American Type Founders Company who, after 
forty years, had caught up with the rest of the world 
in recognising Goudy's importance as a type de- 
signer. The fire, in destroying the original drawings 
and master matrices of Goudy 's types, perhaps put 
an end to these hopes and this long-delayed recogni- 
tion. Realizing this, the loss was all the harder to ac- 
cept in Goudy's usual philosophical fashion. "It's a 
body blow," he said. "At seventy-four it's quite a 
problem to make a new start ... if I were only ten 
years younger ..." But then he added with the 

[99] 



typical Goudy touch, "I don't see much of anything 
I can do unless someone is foolish enough to commis- 
sion a new type." 

Some weeks later, in thinking about the disaster, 
he said, "A thing I can't seem to comprehend is my 
feeling for certain of my types ... of some I seem to 
have no regrets at their disappearance. Not particu- 
larly those which I regarded as less good than others, 
but some which had been accepted generally by 
printers. Strange as it may seem, I regard most poig- 
nantly the loss of my "Ampersands" drawings for 
Typophile article "Ands 6? Ampersands"; my draw- 
ings for "Mediaeval" I feel are a distinct loss, yet 
their duplication as type would be comparatively 
simple. It is the loving satisfaction and pride, the sub- 
leties in the drawing of certain characters as I worked 
that I recall for a type, which, regardless of public 
opinion, I believe to be one of the few original types 
ever drawn. And then my Triar'. I can't begin to 
express my great pleasure as each letter took form . . . 
not a great type, of course, but to me a beloved brain- 
child; and the drawings for the 'Calif ornian' Italic 
which for simple dignity, simplicity and, I hope, 
beauty, retain a high place in my memory." 

In thinking of the past years of struggle Goudy 
also said, "I probably got more praise during my life- 
time than any other type designer. But the trouble 
is, you can't take it to the bank and draw on it. I 
have given forty years of my life to the service of 
printing. I should have been able to retire ten years 

[100] 



ago, but printers are fickle people. At a time when I 
needed the help of printers they failed me. Instead 
of using native type, they import it from Germany. 
How can you establish an American school of type 
design, unless you give American designers a chance 
to live? Td have starved if I had been forced to de- 
pend on the printers of the United States.' ' 

In spite of the tragic loss Goudy has sustained in 
this fire, he will go on designing even though he no 
longer has the type-founding and matrice cutting 
equipment developed over the years by his genius. 
But his inordinate courage, mainstay at other crises, 
is still strong. As long as paper and drawing pencils 
are available, Goudy will go on adding to the 108 
faces now to his credit. He also plans to get at the 
job of writing, postponed for so many years. He 
aims, he says, "to add a studio-alcove to the new 
corner of my library where I can secure a good north 
light, and find a secluded corner for work and yet 
easily accessible to my books, and take up again the 
drawing of types as long as the candle holds out to 
burn." Here he may write the long-promised auto- 
biography. 

After the reluctance of American printers in the 
past to recognize and use Goudy's work, it is pleas- 
ant to record that contemporary printers immedi- 
ately rallied to his support. As this book goes to 
press, a Goudy fund is being established by Printing, 
that printers of the United States may, in some 
degree, makeup for the lamentable loss at Deepdene. 

[101] 



SUBSCRIBERS 



Max A. Adler 

Rochester, T^ew Yor\ 

Mary D. Alexander 
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Lewis A. Alliger 
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Amherst College Library 
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Frank Ankenbrand 
Vineland, l^ew Jersey 

Irving K. Annable 
Boston, Massachusetts 

Bauer Type Foundry 
"N[ew Yor\ City 

Baylor University 
Waco, Texas 

A. G. Beaman 

Los Angeles, California 

Lucian Bernhard 
TSjetv Tor\ City 

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Pough\eepsie, 7<lew tor\ 

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Chicago, Illinois 

L. A. Braverman 
Cincinnati, Ohio 



Paul G. Bremer 
St. Paul, Minnesota 

H. M. Brower 

Gloversville, T^ew Yor\ 

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Dallas, Texas 

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T^ew Yor\ City 

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Springfield, Illinois 

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Chicago Public Library 
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Chicago, Illinois 

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Berkeley, California 

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David A. Lawson 
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Clarence Lewis 
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McGill University Library 
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Grosse Pointe, Michigan 

Metropolitan Museum of 
Art 
Hew Yor\ City 

R. Hunter Middleton 
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New York Public Library 
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Aiea, Hawaii 

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Hew Yor\ City 

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Elmhurst, Hew Tor\ 

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Hew Tor\ City 

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Chicago, Illinois 

Simmons College Library 
Boston, Massachusetts 

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Pasadena, California 

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Broo\ings, South Da\ota 

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Washington, D. C. 



State University of Iowa 
Iowa City, Iowa 

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Wichita, Kansas 

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Lynn, Massachusetts 

Harry B. Weiss 

Trenton, 7s[etu Jersey 



Colophon 

This volume, designed by Norman W. 
Forgue, has been composed in Goudy's 
Kennerley types by Hugh Coutu. After 
proofs were read by Virginia Mills and 
Barbara Herrold 500 copies, of which 
400 are for sale, were printed by Louis 
Graf on Worthy Roxburge paper at the 
Black Cat Press. The illustrations are 
reproduced by Ace Offset Company. 
Cover design by Paul Haselrigg. Bound 
by the John F. Cuneo Company. Com' 
pleted at Chicago during April, 1939. 



UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 

B.G68810 C001 

GOUDY, MASTER OF LETTERS, CHGO 




3 0112 025406361